


Rooted Deeply (Rooted Sweetly)

by FromAnonymousToZ



Series: Lanternuary 2021 [6]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Esoteric content, Gratuitous overuse of the word And, I have no explanation for what they are nor where they came from, If not the tool to allow them to come into being, Its absurd, M/M, Out of my hands, Short, Short & Weird, Sometimes the things that come out of me, They demand to be and what am I, i really have no idea what to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28629528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: The Beast stands in the snow and aches.His claws clutch against furs stained slick by dark oil, eyes blazing in furious rings, and he aches. He burns, and he wants and desires.For the Lanternuary 2021 prompt: cor aut mors: "heart or death"
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Series: Lanternuary 2021 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087931
Kudos: 19





	Rooted Deeply (Rooted Sweetly)

The Beast stands in the snow and  _ aches. _

His claws clutch against furs stained slick by dark oil, eyes blazing in furious rings, and he aches. He burns, and he wants and desires. 

He grits teeth he does not have and scowls, the wound in his chest drips, viscous oil spills over his claws and stains the white canvas of the ground. A low growl rumbles from him, but the figure before him is unswayed, their smile as serene as ever. 

He hates, and he snarls, and he rages, and he pulls his anger up like a shield. His hunger a trap and his livid rage his defense. But it does not matter how much he glowers and grimaces because under it all he  _ wants _ , he wants more than he hungers, more than he consumes. He yearns and craves and desires.

He keeps his secrets close to his chest, his cards hidden in his sleeves rather than his hands, as it has been, it will always be so. He dances easily, away from questions, from magic, and they never truly know the creature that takes their lives from them. 

But he  _ craves _ , he craves more than he needs oil to feed the lantern, he craves more than he needs to hide in shadows. 

So he sells his secrets away to the witch of the young lovers. 

He sells it to her in yellow flowers stained black and stands before her gutted, vivisected for her own cruel curiosity, his secrets and his oil tainting the ground for her amusement. 

His secrets spill unbidden from his lips. They hallow the ground he stands upon and makes both the mouth and the hand holy. 

He gives her what she wants and awaits his payment in return. 

She laughs at him when she has finally had her fun, at what he has done to himself for the sake of another.

She turns him away and says there is nothing to be done for him, but she gathers his secrets and holds them close, like birds of a wing, to be traded and sold.

His eyes blaze furiously as he stands defenseless, spilling his secrets to the snow.

He fumes and swears silent revenge, but he has no power over her. He cannot hope to touch one who holds so many of his secrets.

And so, mournful, broken, he drags himself from his forest, his songs lay dead at his feet, his bravado killed in one swift motion, his secrets like water through his claws. He weeps, and his tears glow horrible colors and paint ugly wounds across his face. 

He throws himself upon the feet of the thing he  _ craves _ , too weak to stand, his secrets tumble out of him, as dark oil and glowing sorrow mingle silver and black over his chest. 

Green ribbons lift him from the dirt to stand on his feet and hold him steady as he sways. They gather his secrets and close over his wounds. They wipe away tears and dark oil and whispered secrets. 

They hold aloft a yellow flower, its petals so abused and ragged it is barely recognizable, its beautiful color hidden by dark oil, a gift once given, returned by shaking hands with the most damming secret of all. 

Green ribbons cradle the flower. They hold it close. 

The Harvest Lord trades the Beast’s secret for his own, just as damning, just as grave, just the same. 

The Harvest Lord makes him a promise, and he keeps it close, guardian it as he does his secrets. 

The witch of young lovers takes his secrets to the grave, as bitter oil and vengeful roots claim back what he never received payment for.


End file.
